


Fights My Heart Held

by bohnem990



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fighting Kink, Fights, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pain, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohnem990/pseuds/bohnem990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The camera in his face belongs to a beat writer who’s trying to break into the scene to be the next Mark Lazarus, but for the Caps, and all Tom wants is to give the guy his first big story. </p><p>‘Tom Wilson beats up beat writer.’ It will be great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fights My Heart Held

**Author's Note:**

> I am loth to admit I am not the biggest fan of the Washington Capitals beyond thinking they are pretty. I struggle to remember which last name belong to Mike and which to Tom. All I really know is that Andre and Alex are the most adorable of them all. 
> 
> This fic happened because I was prompted to write "Latts got injured in a game and Willy is out for blood." I don't think this is exactly what was in mind when this was asked of me. Somehow I keep end up writing Caps fics. 
> 
> A huge thanks to Eden for giving me plot ideas and being my beta even when her electronics were hating her. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and feel free to join me on [tumblr](http://chicago-runsonduncan.tumblr.com)!

Someone throws a camera in Tom’s face and he has the urge to pummel the reporter with his split knuckles. There’s dried blood caked into his cuts and a long set of stitches along the left side of his mouth that pulls as he grimaces. Ovi is standing next to him with a heavy hand cuffed around the back of his neck, a petty attempt to calm him down. 

Vaguely Tom realizes that he’s shaking. Fucking McQuaid. 

They were lucky enough to be pitted against the Bruins in a preseason game, and if there’s one thing Tom has come to know about playing the Bruins, it’s that there will be blood and someone will be injured. Mike isn’t supposed to be the one injured. 

Six minutes into the second period McQuaid laid Mike out, hitting the ice so hard his helmet had gone skittering across it. Play didn’t stop and Mike got up, but instead of falling back into the powerplay he skated to the bench and then down the tunnel. He never returned. 

It was only fair Tom bleed a few of his knuckles on McQuaid’s face. 

The camera in his face belongs to a beat writer who’s trying to break into the scene to be the next Mark Lazarus, but for the Caps, and all Tom wants is to give the guy his first big story. 

‘Tom Wilson beats up beat writer.’ It will be great. 

He twitches, clenching his fist tighter as the reporter rambles on about Tom’s, quote unquote, violent tendencies. His knuckles crackle as Ovi clenches down on his neck harder, forcing him to duck his head mildly. Blood is trickling down his fingers and pooling on the floor beside him, remnants of Mike and the swell of his feelings that threaten to choke him. 

“We done here,” Ovi rumbles deep in his chest, cutting the reporter off mid sentence with a snap of his jaw. 

“No story. No comment. Come now, Willy.” Except Ovi isn’t giving Tom a choice, dragging him by the scruff at the back of his neck towards his locker and only releasing him to toss him down onto the bench. “Undress. Shower, you stink.” 

Tom scowls, no one chirps him about the stitches or the blood he’s getting in his hair as he yanks the sweater over his head. Mike still isn’t out of the trainer’s office and everyone knows better than to speak to Tom. He’s seething and his knuckles are still bleeding. Andre had tried to approach him with gauze and tape, but the look Tom had fixed on him could have frozen hell over. Twice. 

Showered and dressed, Nicky pushes him out of the locker room and into the hallway. “Go home. Serious. We take care of him, you take care of you.”

\--

The apartment is too quiet and the lights are too bright. He isn’t even the one being concussion tested and kept awake for observation, but Tom feels sick. Tom’s stomach is rolling. He can’t imagine being there alone, he can’t believe he left Mike there alone. It is sickening, the unsteady clench of his heart in worry. 

They had been rookies together, grown up together. Tom has had crushes on teammates before. The first boy he had ever touched was his billet brother, the last boy he touched was Andre. Andre, because he couldn’t have Mike, because Mike is straight and and beautiful and forbidden. 

And now Mike probably has a concussion and Tom is going insane in their shared apartment under the bright lights. 

The front door clicks open and then closed, shoes chucked against the wall with a groan. 

“Tommy,” Mike grumbles and Tom scurries to push himself up from the couch so quickly he almost trips over his own socked feet. 

“Jesus Mike, how the fuck did you get home? Did you fucking drive?”

“Shh,” Mike paws at Tom’s face to press a finger against his lips. He snaps his mouth closed and breathes heavily out through his nose. 

“C’mon Mike,” Tom settles them both onto the couch, far enough away from each other to keep Mike from being uncomfortable, but he lists into Tom’s side anyway, pressing against each other from shoulder to hip. 

“I don’t have a concussion, you fucknut, and I didn’t drive myself home. Nicky dropped me off.” 

It feels like a weight has been lifted off Tom’s chest, no concussion. He still feels like the lights are too bright. 

“Good.” 

“Tommy, your mouth,” Mike breathes out. One of his hands floats up, hovering over Tom’s bottom lip. 

His mouth falls open, warm breath ghosting over Mike’s fingers and his heart is pounding in his chest so hard he swears Mike can hear it since he’s sitting so close. He wants to kiss those fingers, run his hands through his hair and angle Mike’s head towards him. Tom wants to know what Mike tastes like. He wants to feel that Mike’s safe. 

“Your fucking mouth,” he repeats, sounding in awe of the stitches and the blood. “You didn’t have to fight for me Tommy.” 

“I always have to fight for you,” Tom shrugs. His knuckles ache and he didn’t clean them very well in the shower, flecks of blood still splatted across them. “I will always fight for you.” 

There’s an unspoken ‘I will always love you’ hanging in the air. 

Mike wrinkles his nose at Tom, cute and button-like. It’s hard to remember he was worried about Mike having a concussion just a few hours ago with him pressed against Tom’s side like this. 

“I’ll always fight for you.” Mike speaks so softly Tom almost can’t hear him. 

“Mike.” His hand shakes as he raises it to Mike’s face, pushing hair out of his eyes. He lingers in the air, unsure if he’s allowed to touch Mike, if Tom is allowed to want him like he does. “Can I..”

“Please.” 

That’s all Tom needs. That’s all Tom ever needed. 

The first brush of their lips is nothing like the movies. It’s so soft and barely there and there’s no fireworks. Tom pulls back. 

“You can’t hurt me,” he grins, stitches pulling at his lip. 

Mike’s only response is to kiss him again. His lips are plush and it hurts when Mike licks over the stitches on his lip. It’s just this side of painful and it lights Tom up from the inside out. This is what the movies are talking about. Tom buries a hand in Mike’s hair and tilts his head to the perfect angle, licking the taste of him from Mike’s mouth. 

When they pull away they’re both breathing hard and it’s perfect. His mouth is on fire, throbbing fiercely where the stitches are. Tom can’t keep the smile off his face. 

“You’re bleeding,” Mike laughs and pushes his thumb into the crease of the stitches where the deepest ache is. Tom can feel the blood pooling around Mike’s finger and then slipping over the curl of his lip. His thumb catches the line of blood and wipes it back upwards towards Tom’s mouth, closing around his finger and licking the salty tang of blood away from it. 

Mike’s mouth drops open as he watches. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since we moved in,” Tom says quietly, like it’s a secret and Mike might hate him now. 

“Tommy, me too.”


End file.
